


we dream of storms

by adenophora



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, First Meetings, Lighthouse/Fisherman AU, Loneliness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 13:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12532844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adenophora/pseuds/adenophora
Summary: Ryan has the lighthouse, and he has the sea. He's adapted to the solitude, even if he wasn't built for it. And then there's Shane.





	we dream of storms

**Author's Note:**

> So this is definitely not the second half of the oldest precipice that I meant to post today, but I started working on this when I should have been editing that, and it ran away with me a bit.

Ryan had never thought it was in his nature to be solitary. Growing up, he felt the connection of others the way some felt God. It was the type of thing said to thrum under one’s bones, a feeling that marked a soul by its proximity to others. 

Now, he lives alone.

He’s not sure how it happened. The transition from boy to man that leads down a path that can’t be known until it’s taken. It strayed Ryan so far from everything he’d known, until he was new again. A version of himself he couldn’t have predicted.

And now, the lighthouse.

It’s the off season, not popular for fishing or tourists, and Ryan spends most nights with the light off, its solitary ray darkened rather than guide nothing. Some nights, Ryan can’t bear the sight of an empty sea.

It’s during one of these nights that Ryan meets Shane.

The lighthouse stands on a lone island, small and insignificant, with a rocky shore and unwelcoming façade. Ryan knows it’s nothing without its lighthouse, the lone building and only marking feature. He walks the perimeter each day, over and over, and Ryan watches as his eyes play tricks on him or he slowly loses himself and swears the island grows smaller. It’s already so insignificant for everything it contains.

There’s a small garden in the back, something Ryan had taken up years ago when he realized food would become scare during the off season. He’s never been a particularly gifted farmer, especially in the beginning. But he bent down each day, tending to the plants, and eventually coaxed life from the weathered soil. Now he maintains that life meticulously, as carefully as his own.

Crouched over a pea plant, Ryan hears the unmistakable sound of someone pulling into his small dock—the sound of the sea when someone thinks they can move against its will. There are very few boats that can dock safely on the island, as the wooden structure of the pier is old and weary, near collapse.

Ryan thinks the next big storm might take it out. But he prefers not to think about all the ways his island is falling apart.

After he finishes tending to the peas, Ryan stands up slowly while rubbing the dirt from his hands onto his worn jeans. The dirt rubs over old stains, mixing and concealing to create something new. When he turns to get a good look at the ship, it can hardly be called even that.

The boat is old, just like the dock. Just like the lighthouse. It’s white with red trim, unremarkable in every regard. Across the bow, as though painted with a shaky hand, reads _Sara Marie_.

Ryan stares for a few moments, and then watches as the ship’s captain emerges from the miniscule cabin. Ryan’s thankful for the overcast sky, as he can get a clear look at the man even before he approaches Ryan. 

Tall, gangly. He has limbs that must have been awkward while growing, and he walks with a slight hunch in shoulders, as though ever conscious of his towering height. Ryan thinks he’s attractive, the same way Ryan finds the sea after a storm attractive. He looks almost haunted, as though he’s weathered something immeasurable himself.  

As the man approaches Ryan, he smiles, and the first thing out his mouth is: “That’s a nice lighthouse you’ve got there. Does it have room for one more for the night?”

It’s not an odd request, and Ryan’s grown used to sheltering the stray sailor or two. Usually, they’ll exchange food or liquor for their stay, but what Ryan really gets paid in is company.

Even now, he feels drawn to others, though it’s all so much different than it was before.

“Does ‘one more’ have a name?” Ryan replies, before sticking out his hand. It’s still smudged with dirt, but the man takes it without hesitating.

“Shane,” he says, before pausing. “Madej.”

“Ryan Bergara.”

They share a smile, standing beneath Ryan’s lighthouse—his home, his world—and it feels significant. Like the stars that guide sailors at night, and the wind that blows a lost captain home, Ryan wants to call this meeting fate.

Instead, he steps back before gesturing for Shane to follow him, which he does amicably. Ryan glances back, catching Shane’s eyes, before quickly looking forward again.

Ryan swallows. He’s never considered himself a solitary creature. Even now, he thinks. Even now he knows it isn’t true.

As Ryan leads Shane into the lighthouse, he begins talking. He knows it’s to distract himself, but Ryan pretends he’s doing it to be polite, as though Shane’s answer matters more than there being anyone to answer at all.

“There’s a cot down here near the kitchen,” Ryan says, as he turns to an old table to grab a kerosene lamp. “It might be a little short for you, but…”

Shane smiles again, conceding to his ridiculous height. “I’ll make it work.”

Next to Shane, the cot looks even smaller, but Ryan doesn’t comment on it further. Rather, he thinks back to the seemingly empty sea and its lone occupant.

“It’s a slow time for fishing,” Ryan changes the subject, before glancing at Shane in what he hopes is an unassuming manner. “Haven’t had a lot of visitors lately.”

“I’m not much of a fisher,” Shane admits. As he speaks, he rubs the back of his head slowly, and Ryan contemplates it as a nervous gesture or just a given idiosyncrasy. “Otherwise, I would have known it’s the off season, I guess. It’s been a lonely few weeks.”

It’s said with a quick, soft self-deprecating laugh, and Ryan’s taken back to the sea after a storm. The waves crash against the rocks so curiously, a different version of themselves, drained of whatever it is that makes the ocean so immense.

Ryan thinks there’s another version of Shane, too. The version that existed before the one that turned up at his door, a crease between his brow and an unspoken weight on his shoulders. But Ryan knows the waves remain muted for days following a hurricane, and Shane doesn’t look close to relaxing his posture.

When Ryan doesn’t reply, Shane shuffles before casting his gaze around the lighthouse’s interior.

“My dad used to tell me all lighthouses are haunted,” Shane begins, and he gives Ryan a sardonic smile. It’s twisted, as though the words left Shane’s mouth without his own permission. Still, he continues, “That sailors who died as sea are guided to them and then can’t leave. It’s their curse.”

“You believe that?” Ryan asks, not commenting on it himself. The lighthouse is old, Ryan tells himself. The noises are the wind. He’s all alone on this island.

“Nah, it’s all bullshit. Ghosts. Spirits. Whatever.” Shane shrugs with the last word, before he gives Ryan another look. Ryan doesn’t know what to make of it, but he feels pinned to the spot. Unable to move until Shane releases his gaze. “I believe in the ground.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and then he looks away.

Ryan swallows thickly, and thinks Shane has told more than he planned on ever saying. Ryan wants to reach out, and he thinks of smudging the dirt from his hands as he cups the curve of Shane’s face.

He shakes his head to clear it, unsure of where the thought came from. But it holds on in the back of his mind, and the light from the lamp glances off Shane’s cheek like the suggestion of an invitation.

“I think we both could use a drink,” Ryan finally says, and he feels Shane’s relief more than he sees it, connecting them both in the small space of the lighthouse.  

He walks the few steps past the cot into the small area of the room that could be considered the kitchen, perching on his toes to find something strong. Ryan shifts around the contents of the upper cabinets, before finally pulling out an old bottle of whiskey. It’s about half empty, but Ryan can’t remember when he last drank from it.  

After a guilty pause, Ryan decides he must have gotten into it during one of the rougher nights. When the island feels small, and the lighthouse feels immense. As though the two foundations of his existence are at odds, with Ryan caught in the middle, waiting to be thrown out to sea.

He also pulls out two glasses, making sure to find the two with the least chips or old stains. He pours a liberal amount of whiskey into each cup, and then he gives one to Shane.

They stand close in the lamplight.

“Whiskey,” Shane muses, staring into the amber liquid of the glass. “Good choice. Always a good choice.”

Ryan watches as he downs the whiskey in one take, making only a mild face of displeasure at the burn. Ryan startles, letting out a breath of air too weak to be called a laugh. Something about it seems funny without any actual humor.

Shane gives him another half-smile, and in response, Ryan raises his glass to his lips, pausing minutely before following Shane’s lead. It burns familiar, and Ryan takes a perverse form of comfort in it. After Ryan settles his glass on the table, he then grabs the bottle by the neck off the counter to drink from it directly. It’s the worst sort of relief.

There’s something wild in Shane’s eyes when Ryan meets his gaze again, and Ryan hands over the bottle wordlessly. Their fingers brush, just for a moment, but it feels to Ryan like the ocean breeze itself, waking him up after a long sleep. Ryan stretches his hand in front of himself, and sighs lowly to see that it’s not shaking.

Ryan leans against the counter, and they pass the bottle back and forth for several long moments, completely silent. There are so few words between them, and Ryan knows he used to be different. The version of him that could fill this lighthouse with words and then continue on rambling. The version of him that wasn’t so familiar with the quiet.

But maybe that Ryan met another Shane, one who can’t swallow liquor as effortlessly as Ryan also can. Maybe that pair has more to say to each other.

“I believe in ghosts,” Ryan says without preamble, noticing the barest trace of a slur in his own voice. He adds, “They’re here. They’re always here.”

“It’s nothing,” Shane replies, and his own expression has grown hazy. It appears warmer compared to the battered look he wore earlier, but there’s a finality to his words. “It’s always nothing.”

“You don’t understand,” Ryan almost feels like he’s begging. He’s not exactly sure what he’s trying to say. But he _needs_ Shane to understand; it feels almost fundamental, the thread holding them together. “They’re always fucking here. They’re the only ones here.”

Shane wobbles towards Ryan, clumsily crashing into him and sending them both to the floor. Ryan feels Shane’s hot breath against his neck, and Shane’s large hands on his waist. It feels grounding, encompassing. Ryan feels caught. He loses himself in the touch, and somehow misses the part where they sort themselves out.

When Ryan’s aware of his limps again, they’re still seated on the floor, propped up against each other and leaning heavily on the far wall. The bottle has somehow survived in Ryan’s hand, and there’s maybe a few swallows of whiskey left in it. The sight of it almost makes Ryan feel sick.

He lazily thrusts the bottle in Shane’s direction, motioning for him to take it. Instead, Shane wraps his fingers around Ryan’s, and it feels careful. Deliberate.

Ryan turns toward Shane, if only to ask him what he’s doing. Shane looks serious, near sober. He looks tired. He looks like the sea at its calmest—dark blue without the barest trace of its unimaginably power.

He looks steady, steadier than Ryan feels.

“There’s no one here but us, Ryan,” Shane says, and then he leans in slowly, slower than Ryan thought possible. Shane places a soft hand against Ryan’s cheek, a reversal of all his earlier thoughts, and Ryan feels guided like a light against the dark waves.

When their lips finally meet, Ryan is again struck by the deliberateness of it, the concise way Shane slots his mouth against Ryan’s. It’s feels unmistakable in its inevitability, as though those endless lonely nights were building up to this.

Ryan moves his lips against Shane’s, a mere parody of passion in his dazed state, and he almost smiles into the kiss. Shane feels familiar in a way he has no right to.

He leans further into Shane, placing his hands on Shane’s shoulders. Ryan wants to be closer still, and he grips the fabric of Shane’s shirt, before pulling them up together. Ryan’s actions are less than fluid, and they break apart in the process. So close, the height difference is almost startling, and Ryan laughs softly at Shane’s near-embarrassed slouch.

It feels more romantic than it does a desperate act against loneliness, and Ryan knows this doesn’t belong either. He holds onto it anyway. 

Shane walks Ryan backwards, until they're flush together with Ryan's back scraping against the wall. It feels raw, the pain a comfort just like the whiskey. Ryan feels cut off from everything except this moment, and for once, the feeling isn't suffocating. It's everything. 

"You don't understand what it's like," Ryan says, pressing kisses against Shane's collarbone, working up his neck. He wants to explore everything about this reality, this new meaning. In between each press of his lips, Ryan whispers furtively, "It's just the lighthouse. It's just me. I've got the ground, Shane. That's all there is beneath me. You can have it." 

Shane's making shushing noises, rubbing his hands softly up and down Ryan's arms, resting them briefly each time at his shoulders before beginning again. It's hypnotic, circular. Like the waves themselves. 

"There's me, too. Me. You. The lighthouse," Shane finally says, as if there's nothing else he ever could say. As if he felt the inevitability too. He adds, "There's no room here for your ghosts, Ryan." 

Ryan presses upward, and they crash together again. When Shane grabs Ryan’s hips, he almost feels different, changed. A leftover relic from the version of Shane from before. The one that painted _Sara Marie_ onto the side of a boat. The one that stole out to sea without any knowledge of its secrets. Ryan presses into the feeling, and he’s in the eye of the storm.

He presses forward still. He feels himself filled with the endless energy between the two of them, crowded together as close as possible and trying closer still. Ryan wraps his arms around Shane’s waist to slot their hips together, and it’s messy. It’s all so messy, so undeniably real.

Shane’s hands have returned to Ryan’s face, and Ryan feels like drowning. Ryan knows it’s impossible to win against the sea.

He drags Shane up the stairs, away from the kitchen cot and towards his own bed, and he hears the whispering in the walls, the wind that isn’t wind, and he doesn’t care.

Ryan wakes up in the morning, alone in bed but with the unquestionable dent of a previous other body. Ryan stretches his hand out to the other side of the mattress, and it feels cold.

The cold weight of the truth settles heavy in Ryan's chest, but on the slightest shard of hope, he slowly pushes up from the bed and walks toward the lone window, looking out at the worn dock.

The boat is gone, and Ryan is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is another one of those AUs where I had the idea for just a short one shot, but the possibility of more lurks on the edge despite my definite lack of time for it. 
> 
> After I finish up the shadows that follow you, I might return to this idea.
> 
> Kudos + comments always appreciated.


End file.
